


Mirror

by battle_cat



Series: Together [20]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Playing dress-up, Underground Mall, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5206130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s nothing in there,” she says. There are, of course, hundreds of things in there—garishly colored and ludicrously fragile, impractical for fighting and liable to be ripped to shreds in five minutes on the road.</p><p>Max’s face is illuminated by the lantern he’s holding, and he’s wearing a shockingly silly grin.</p><p>“Can’t hurt to look, right?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> I blame [nanda's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nandamai/pseuds/nanda) [mall fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5156510) for this.

“Hey.”

They’re on their way out of the mall with a stash of underwear and a desperately needed pair of pants for Max when he stops, outside the dark maw of one of the stores she never goes into.

“There’s nothing in there,” she says. There are, of course, hundreds of things in there—garishly colored and ludicrously fragile, impractical for fighting and liable to be ripped to shreds in five minutes on the road.

Max’s face is illuminated by the lantern he’s holding, and he’s wearing a shockingly silly grin.

“Can’t hurt to look, right?” He slips inside before she can protest, and hell if she’s going to let him wander around alone, so she shakes her head and follows.

Their footfalls on the gritty floor are the only sound as they slip between hills of clothing, hung on metal racks she’s shocked to realize haven’t been melted down. (She imagines exhaust pipes and irrigation components and makes a mental note to come back here with a salvage crew.)

It seems to have been a store for clothing of the most ridiculous varieties: insubstantial dresses that hardly cover anything, shirts still shockingly white, thin jackets and trousers that would not withstand a single motorcycle crash.

And there is so _much_ of it—rack after rack of garments, some hung on walls or on little statues of people for display. Furiosa can’t imagine anyone needing this many things so delicate in construction.

She runs her hand through brightly colored fabric, impossibly soft, and remembers bits of stories the oldest Mothers told her about Before. How people used to go scavenging not because they needed something but simply for entertainment. How they had so many clothes they built little rooms in their homes for them, and sometimes even paid money for a tiny vault in a building full of vaults to store the things that wouldn’t fit in their houses. It seems absurd.

“So many things…” she mutters as they wander deeper into the dark recesses of the store.

There’s a flicker of movement in the shadows. She freezes, her hand at the gun on her hip, and then realizes—

_“Oh.”_

It’s a mirror. Almost the full height of a person, still attached to a back wall.

She’s never seen one this big still intact—well, almost intact; there’s a spidery crack in the top left corner. The only mirrors at the Citadel are broken bits, big enough to see whatever part of your body you’re shaving or wound you’re stitching up and not much else.

It’s…she can’t remember if she’s ever been able to look at her whole body at once in a mirror, and it’s so surreal that for a moment she just stares, turning sideways, watching the way muscles move under her clothes, fascinated in spite of herself.

“Mm. You should try something on.” She startles at Max’s soft voice behind her. His reflection appears over her shoulder in the mirror. She thinks it’s dark enough that he can’t see her blush.

“I can’t take any of these.” The idea of taking something she can’t cover with engine grease and dust seems far too decadent, obscene even.

“You don’t have to take it,” he says, and he still has that little _smile_ on his face. “You could just…see how it looks.”

“Why?”

“For fun.”

“That’s silly.” She gives him a withering look, which for some reason only makes him grin. 

“’S the point.”

She snorts. It seems so frivolous. But…

They’re alone in the shadows and no one will know but him. And she suddenly, brazenly thinks, _why not?_

She turns to the rack closest to her, and this time she actually looks, noticing colors and shapes, sliding strange fabrics between her fingers.

She skips over the gauzy, trailing things, too much like white muslin wraps she doesn’t want to remember. But there are other fabrics, heavy and thick and sown with thousands of tiny beads, or shiny and flowing like liquid metal, and…she can’t help wondering how they would feel against her skin.

Her fingers settle on something deep green, the color of growing things, made of a sleek fabric that flows like water through her fingers. When she holds it up she sees it’s a simple dress, refreshingly free of nonsensical adornments and bows, the top held up by straps that fasten together behind the wearer’s neck. She doesn’t remember how the size numbers work, but it looks like it might fit her.

She shoots a glance at Max and he’s still grinning, the fool.

She doesn’t entirely like the idea of taking off her arm and guns, let alone her clothes, in the middle of this cavernous, uncertain space. But as if he’s reading her thoughts, he says, “I’ll keep watch.”

And so she somehow finds herself unbuckling her prosthetic, placing weapons carefully on a dusty shelf within easy reach, stripping off clothes, and she’s been naked plenty of times in front of Max but something about the silent, dark building around her and the mirror reminding her of her own bare flesh makes it feel different, illicit somehow. She keeps catching him glancing at her in the reflection ( _keeping watch indeed_ , she thinks, and she should be more concerned about him _actually_ keeping watch, but…)

He helps her slide the dress over her head and fasten the clasp at the back of her neck. The fabric is strange and cool and slippery against her skin. It’s a bit too loose in the chest and a bit too tight across her broad back, made for women with more fat and less muscle than the Wasteland has ever allowed her to have. And it feels way too short, ending several inches above her knees.

But…there is something interesting about the way the straps leave her shoulders and arms bare, the contrast between hard muscle and sleek fabric, and the way the shimmery cloth hugs her waist and slides smoothly over the curve of her ass.

Her body is a practical tool, a honed weapon that has allowed her to survive. She likes it for its strength, the reach of her arms and the power in her thighs, the quickness of reflexes and the scars that count out the battles she’s survived. (She even, secretly, sometimes likes the fact that it had refused to bear any children for Joe, even though she’d paid for it.)

She’d never thought to like it solely for its curves and planes, the way it looks under clothes, or without them. So shifting around slowly to look at her own image in the mirror, and finding it pleasing, feels as strange and indulgent as the flimsy piece of clothing she’s wearing.

Max has left the lamp on the floor and she can hear him rustling around behind her. A moment later he comes back into view and she puts a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

He’s only changed the top half of his clothing, but…he’s wearing one of those funny pure-white shirts and a sleek black jacket, and a bit of black cloth at his throat that ties in a bow. He’s still wearing his grungy pants and his sidearm strapped to the brace on his leg, and she thinks he ought to look ridiculous, but, well, the jacket does something that makes his shoulders look very nice, and the overall effect is quite a bit more enjoyable than she would have expected.

He’s got that strange light in his eyes that shows up when he looks at her sometimes. 

He comes to stand right behind her, both of them facing the mirror, lantern light throwing deep shadows on his face. “Mm,” he huffs, putting a hand on her waist over the slick fabric. “Look nice.”

His hand slides down, over her ass and around to the inside of her thigh and then up, under the skirt, a slow circuit of electricity, and she allows herself a moment to imagine it, him touching her here in the shadows, making her come in front of the mirror where she can watch herself, before she bites her lip and pushes his hand away.

“Not safe here.”

Maybe if the world were different.

He helps her slide the dress over her head and put her normal clothes back on. She straps arm and weapons back onto her body while he changes his clothes.

Instead of hanging the dress up, she tucks it away inside one of the row of tiny rooms at the back of the store, wrapped in a bit of plastic where no one else would think to look for it.

She lets herself imagine a version of events where she’d come back and get it, not because she needs it, and not even because Max likes the way she looks in it, but because she does.

Even though she already knows that won’t happen. She’ll come back to tear apart the metal racks for salvage, but not for a shiny green bit of cloth.

Maybe if the world were different, she thinks. But it’s not.

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be just pure fluff but these two just can't keep their hands off each other.


End file.
